Crime and Punishment
by WaffleMafia
Summary: Sherlock needs a new room mate, and John Watson is the perfect match. Then the 'perfect match' ends up going farther than ever believed, until Sherlock's demise at the Fall, and John must move out and move on.
1. Listening At Night

_**Warning- The following story may or may not contain explicit slash between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Consider yourself warned...**_

_**Disclaimer- None of the characters you are about to read of belong to me. I am only using them for my sick and twisted enjoyment... And yours. Pervert.**_

"_Listening at night  
>Waiting for a sound to come up the stairs.<br>Listening at night  
>For the slamming door in the car park"<em>

_Taken from the song 'Untitled 8' by Brand New_

He sat alone in the flat. Silence around him was deafening. Albiet he loved the silence, it meant he could be alone with his own mind. He could think finally. The last one that was here, that Henry person or whatever his name was, had tried too hard to be perfect for Sherlock. Who the fuck does that? 'Being too perfect for Sherlock' meant 'not doing anything at all and just being here sometimes.' Nothing more, nothing less.

"SHUT UP." Sherlock shouted as the phone in the flat rang. Oh how annoying that sound was, almost as obnoxious as the breathing sound Anderson makes. Unlike Anderson, the phone doesn't obey when told to kindly shut up.

Sherlock huffed and walked over to the still-ringing phone. Why hadn't he just disconnected it? Oh right, Harold needed to be in contact and 'cellulars are just too expensive and I never get good service.'

"What?" Sherlock said into the phone as 'nicely' as he could for now.

At first there was no response. He assumed it was someone who had seen the advertisement for a flat mate put out my Mrs. Hudson. No one Sherlock knew would call the flat phone, they would call his personal cell. God, this blasphemous creation needed to be destroyed.

"Hello?" Sherlock nearly shouted into the phone.

"Oh, er... Is this flat 221 B on Bakerstreet?" The voice was meek at first but after a clearing of the throat it became deeper and clearer.

"Yes." Sherlock said.

"Well... I saw an ad in the paper about a flat mate? Is this a Mr. Holmes, or Mrs. Hudson?" The voice sounded afraid now.

"Sherlock Holmes." Does he really sound like woman? "Mrs. Hudson faced a rather gruesome death the other day and now I have her rotting body in my bathtub, if you don't mind the stench you can come by and see the place." Sherlock smirked as he spoke.

"I..." There was a click and the obvious sound of dead air ringing into his ear. If he didn't hang up soon a voice would come on telling him that he had misdialed or needed to dial his phone. How bothersome that voice was.

Sherlock walked back into the living room. He sat on the couch. It had been a little over a week since a good case came around. He sat and listened to the noises. Slamming car doors outside, seven to be exact, and the muffled voices of people walking by, two men, and lastly he could hear his own heartbeat in his chest. It was solid and perpetual, always there, unlike the sounds of the outside world. The time where most things are silent is at exactly 2:36am. Right now it was the noisest time of day, 8:42pm on a Thursday, it was starting to get dark and people were going out for the found this out last Tuesday when he was sitting on the chair facing the window and looking out at the city. Nothing was stirring, not even a murderer.

_**Author's Note:**_

_**I am back, bitches. And this time I am writing about Sherlock and John. Anyhoo I really have no idea where this is going so be ready for whatever. Seeing as writing unplanned work didn't go so well in the past I hope you will bear with me.**_

_**-a**_


	2. We'll keep keep keep keep you alive

_**Warning- The following story may or may not contain explicit slash between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Consider yourself warned...**_  
><em><span><strong>Disclaimer- None of the characters you are about to read of belong to me. I am only using them for my sick and twisted enjoyment... And yours. Pervert.<strong>_

"_We'll keep keep keep keep you alive  
>'Cause we always need bargaining chips<br>We'll keep keep keep keep you alive  
>'Cause your pretty<br>And we need something to look at while we...  
>Tear you up,<br>Take what you love ,  
>And burn it down,<br>And burn it down,  
>You swear to build,<br>We swear to come,  
>And burn it down<br>And burn it down."_

_Taken from the song 'Untitled 5' by Brand New_

The room was dark, cold, and smelled of mold. John could feel the leather restraints digging into this wrists, over his lap, and across each ankle. Ever since he had moved in with Sherlock a few months ago things like this have happened before.

"I cannot stay there." John would tell Mycroft on the many abductions that have happened thus far.

"He needs someone to keep him grounded, he nearly had the police phoned when he told his last prospected flat mate that he had a dead body in his bath." Mycroft sighed. He knew Sherlock better than Sherlock did sometimes. "Besides, he has taken a liking to you. You can deal with him and he can deal with you.

The conversations shared between Mycroft and John were mostly talks about Sherlock and his mental state and all that. Sometimes it dabbled into whether or not he was gay, but that was only after a particularly brutal murder case and a witness was killed.

Those conversations were in completely different places than where John was right now. He was in some room and for some reason he had the feeling he was in danger. Thoughts of what it could be flooded his brain. God, there were so many people. He first thought of Jim, the 'consulting criminal' as he called himself. Or it could have been anyone who was out to get Irene Adler, although she was dead that doesn't mean people's grudges were too.

"Hello." A thick, Russian voice spoke out of the darkness.

"Where am I?" John asked. He thought of Sherlock. 'Do you think they're going to tell you John? Obviously they brought you to a mysterious place for a reason.'

"32 Lakefront Drive on the upper end of town." The Russian voice spoke again. It was a woman, he was sure. He tried to imagine where she was in the room. "Do you know why you are here, Doctor?" She was definitely to the far right of him.

"I do not." He said patiently.  
>"You have been brought here to help my colleague." A small light was flicked on in the corner as she spoke. The room wasn't as dank as he assumed. There was wallpaper, a small table with a lamp and what looked like a one-way window. "It is of the up most importance that all information obtained stayed classified."<p>

"Who am I helping, exactly?" John thought of famous Russian men and women. There were authors, astronauts, government officials.

"His name is Viktor. He is executive at major corporation and his health is failing him. You will help, or will I have to persuade you?" Her tone became dark.  
>"I will help." Where was Sherlock?<p>

Sherlock was at the police station speaking to Lestrade about John. Sherlock went out for milk (after John's constant nagging) and when he returned the flat had been broken into and John was gone. Nothing was stolen and nothing was left behind besides the stink of Russian cigars.

"You're the genius Sherlock, you find him." Lestrade did not have time for this, there were three rather peculiar murders that were likely linked. "Maybe he's like the other twenty-seven flat mates you've had. Maybe he just left."  
>"Wrong. He would have collected his things. He also told me to go out for milk, so he was expecting something. He was helping me with these murders as well." Sherlock paced.<p>

Sherlock began to run through the facts about the murders in his head. All three were doctors, two women and a man. Their ages varied between twenty-eight and fifty-seven, the women were white and the man was Indian. Each had their doctorates degrees. The first woman, Julia Harper was a cancerous tumor expert, the second woman Valery Marshall was a general practitioner, and the final victim, the man, Al-Hasaad Abdari was trained in India, the United States, and now England. He was educated in bone and blood diseases specifically. They were all found floating off shore of the river in Westminster. They all met their fate via injection of some mystery poison. This case was rather boring for Sherlock, but he went with it because John was a doctor.

"Oh god." Sherlock stopped. How could he have missed this detail?  
>"What?" Lestrade looked up from his work at Sherlock.<br>"John." He said as he left the room, his trench coat billowing behind him.  
>Lestrade followed Sherlock out of the building and Sherlock was waving down a cab. He was pacing even on the sidewalk.<p>

"Sherlock, we can take my car." Lestrade pulled out his keys and headed towards the police station car park. Sherlock followed. "Where are we going?"

"To the warehouses by the river." Sherlock almost added 'obviously' to the end of that but he was too caught up in his mile-a-minute thoughts to do so.

"Any one specifically?" Lestrade asked as he pulled out and headed towards the river.  
>"All of them." Sherlock said and looked at his phone. He had texted John at least twelve times since lunch. None of which were responded to.<p>

John was released from his restraints after he was given the news that he was going to be murdered if he didn't help this Viktor man. This woman must have been the murderer of those other three doctors. Sherlock was going to have to solve his flatmates murder and Molly was going to have to look at John's dead and swollen body.

"Did other doctors look at him?" John asked as he rubbed his wrists.

"Yes." The woman spoke softer now. John didn't seem threatening. "They did tests and found nothing." "I'll need to see the test results. What kind of doctors were they?" John resisted asking what happened to them. He knew that they were killed. He didn't need to be told his own fate.

"Cancer doctor, regular doctor and bone doctor." She forgot the bone doctor also knew about blood diseases.

John was going to look over the past tests, then check for outward signs of disease, do a mental evaluation, have the man walk, speak, and do other things to check for anything obvious. He needed to buy time so Sherlock could get here.

"Here he is." The woman was behind him as she spoke. John really hadn't gotten a good look at her until now. Her face was sharp and angular. Her cheek bones jutted out making her eye sockets and cheeks look deep. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight pony-tail. Her blue eyes were bright from their sockets. She wore no makeup. Her beauty was astonishing and she knew it, and she knew that John knew it.

"His name is Viktor?" John asked the question he already knew the answer to.

"Yes." They stopped in a long hallway just outside a door. The door was made of thick metal and looked rusted. The light out here was dim compared to what was on the other side. This room was bright, sterile, white and full of medical supplies. There was an x-ray machine, a full body scanner, and cabinets of drugs. In the back of the room was a door and beside that door was a suitcase. John wondered what was in it, but didn't want to look for fear of being punished. Why had they chosen John over anyone else, anyway? The army doctor whom had just recently gotten over his psychosomatic illness. He was nothing special.

"This is him?" The man in the room said from the chair he was sitting in. John assumed this was Viktor. Viktor was older looking, perhaps in his late fifties, he wore a tailored suit and his salt and pepper hair was slicked back against his head. His skin was pallid and he certainly didn't look healthy. His features were soft compared to the woman. He didn't have the sharp cheek bones, but he had a strong chin and a large forehead. He was a Russian

John walked over and extended his hand to introduce himself, the man did not react. John just looked around at the room full of medical things. This room had everything that he could need, what had the others missed?

"Where are those records...?" He went to ask the woman by name, but he didn't have her title.

"Here." She said without a smile nor the indication that she was going to share her name.

John looked over it all. The others did tests and retests and retests of those tests. They had missed nothing. John needed to buy time and he wanted to do the most lengthy tests as soon as possible, but he also wanted to know what was going on with the man. Perhaps he would try and help.

"I will need a pen, paper, and clipboard." John said to the woman.

He received it moments later. He sat across from the man and looked at him first. Not a word was exchanged between the pair. John noted that his eyes were empty looking, and they were bloodshot as well. He looked at the man's skin around his neck and there was no rash. He would have to do a full body exam to make sure. He checked the man's pulse and blood pressure and all was normal for a man his age.

"Family history?" John asked.

"My father died in the war, my mother died of a stroke. My uncle had lung cancer, my aunt is still alive, my grandfather died a mysterious death and I do not know about my grandmother." The man said all at once.  
>"Okay." John could tell he was used to giving this speech. "What seems to be the problem, Viktor?"<br>"I have seizures, my body hurts at all times, and there are tumors on my body. Headaches, tremors." The man looked at John for some indication of knowledge. John was just an army doctor, nor a miracle worker.

John did x-rays, body exams, and blood work. The only thing that came back abnormally was the x-rays. They showed that the bone was more dense than normal. He looked at it over again. Then he looked at the man. He walked over to where the man sat and felt his arms, they felt no thicker than his own arm. He looked at the man's head and it looked larger than average but not enough to be anything.

"I want to do an MRI." He said to the man. Viktor just stood and walked over to the machine.

The MRI showed nothing abnormal. His brain was functioning fine, there was no damage to be noted. John had no idea what was wrong.

"Did the bone doctor say anything?" He asked Viktor.

"Only that he didn't know what was wrong with me." Viktor said.

John nodded and thought. He knew how to treat bullet holes and do amputations. He had no idea what could cause dense bones, seizures, headaches and tremors. Sherlock probably would know. It would be obvious too.

"Do you know what you're looking for?" Lestrade said as he and Sherlock looked through the third warehouse.  
>"I'll know when I find it." Sherlock said as he opened a room, only to find it empty.<p>

He and Lestrade looked through twelve warehouses and it took nearly an hour and a half. They were on their last five warehouses and decided to split up. Sherlock took the next one down the line and Lestrade took the one at the very end.

Sherlock entered the dark building. He looked around at the ground with his flashlight. The dirt had been recently disturbed there, there was no dust on the door handles nor on a few of the tables. It seemed to have been resided in for a little if not actually lived in. He slowly climbed the stairs and heard a sound from down the long and dimly lit hallway. He walked slowly and listened by each door. The third to last door was where he finally stopped. He could hear words being exchanged from the inside.

"I just need more time." Said a muffled man's voice.

"I haven't got time." Said a woman's voice. She was Russian

"I can't cure a man in seven hours." The masculine voice said again.

"You will or I will kill you." The woman said again.

The Russian woman had John and for some reason he was here to cure a person of their disease. That explains the murdered doctors and why they had ended up in the river. He concluded that he would go into the room and do what had to be done to get out.

Sherlock flung the door open, and seeing as the door was nearly rusted off it's hinges the entrance was less dramatic than desired. He looked from John to the woman to the man. John looked relieved and terrified at the same time. John had no idea what the Russian woman was capable of. If she could abduct John without him having any recollection of it then she must be good.

"Who are you? Who is this?" The woman asked Sherlock and then John. She walked over to Sherlock with her knife drawn and ready to stab Sherlock in the jugular.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, world renowned doctor." He lied to the woman, and she bought it.  
>"Sherlock." John looked at him. "This man suffers from seizures, headaches, and tremors. His bones are oddly dense but he doesn't seemed malformed."<br>Sherlock stopped. The woman looked at him and looked at John. Viktor sat in his chair as he was in too much pain to actually move. Sherlock closed his eyes as John's words ran through his mind over and over and over again. He couldn't come up with anything. He needed time just like John told them. Time was key. Time was what they didn't have.

"You have answer?" The woman asked.  
>"No." Sherlock said. "I do not."<br>"He is dying and you have to cure him."  
>"I cannot cure him when I do not know what is wrong." Sherlock said.<p>

Sherlock looked at the man sitting. He was sad, dying, in pain and just wanted to know what was wrong.

"The bone doctor didn't know, they won't either Heidi." The man spoke for the fourth time in the past seven hours.

"What did we miss?" Sherlock paced. "The bones are the key. They're dense, they are causing this... They're dense. There's too much bone and not enough space, not just in the brain, but anywhere. They're crushing you." Sherlock was babbling and repeating himself.

John went to the book and looked through the section of rare diseases and into the subsection of for bones. He started with A and quickly paged through until he got to D. It came to him.  
>"Paget's Disease." John said.<p>

"What...?" Sherlock said. He had stopped pacing.

"Paget's Disease. It-it's the over growth of bone and it can crush the brain and the nerves, causing the tremors, pain, seizures, and everything else. It... It can be treated with osteoporosis medicine. A man I treated in Afghanistan had it, he had to come by every once in a while when his medicine was almost gone and get pain killer. God, why had I not realized?"

Sherlock stopped. The room froze. He looked at John and then to the woman 'Heidi.' John had figured it out. Jesus fucking christ thank god John was a doctor.

"You can cure him?" Heidi asked.

"No, not exactly. It's treatable but I don't think there's a cure." John began to raid the cupboards and shelves around the room for medicine that he needed. Calcitonin and biphosphinates. Where would they keep this medicine?

While John dug around Sherlock looked from the man to the woman. He was old enough to be her father, and she looked enough like him to be his kin. Paget's disease could be genetic and most likely was. He has it, she was going to get it too.

"I can't find the medicine..." John stopped and ran his hands through his hair. Sherlock watched as his brows furrowed, his frown formed lines on his face and his hands were lost in the tawny hair on the man's head. Sherlock would have only been able to see these things on the examination table if he hadn't found John in time.

The woman walked towards John, only now instead of knife she had a gun drawn. It had come from the holster on her left hip. She had it pointed at John, the barrel poised perfectly and aimed right at the center of John's chest. He knew it wouldn't hit his heart, but it would go right through his esophagus and possibly hit the tips of his lungs. He would die.

"You killed those other doctors." Sherlock said. "They couldn't cure your father, the experts, but a shabby war doctor could fix him right up. Now you will go to jail not only for murder but for holding us hostage as well."  
>"No, I will not go to jail." She smiled. "We will leave on jet and go back to Russia before anyone can even stop us."<p>

"They'll find out who you are. They know us, and if you're as important as you say you are then they know you too." John said while he looked at the gun. "Call the police and tell them that you have us and you need the medicine."

"He isn't sick." Sherlock said. "The symptoms are too exact, and these medical supplies had to obtained somehow. Jim worked at the hospital, and he is not above stealing."

"Finally it all comes out." The man's accent dropped, and so did his face. Literally, his face fell off.

"It's you." John barely whispered.

"It's me!" Jim's face lit up. No wonder the man barely spoke, Jim is so expressive that it would show through and Sherlock would have known immediately. "Now, let the games begin."

_**Author's Note:**_

_**GASP. This means that there will be a second part! Unlike Moffet and Gattiss I won't leave you hanging for like a year and laugh about it. Anyway check in soon and hopefully there should be a chapter up, or maybe not. I'm not sure yet.**_

_**-a**_


	3. Cause we always need bargaining chips

_**Warning- The following story may or may not contain explicit slash between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Consider yourself warned...**_  
><em><strong>Disclaimer- None of the characters you are about to read of belong to me. I am only using them for my sick and twisted enjoyment... And yours. Pervert.<strong>_

"_We'll keep keep keep keep you alive  
>'Cause we always need bargaining chips<br>We'll keep keep keep keep you alive  
>'Cause your pretty<br>And we need something to look at while we...  
>Tear you up,<br>Take what you love ,  
>And burn it down,<br>And burn it down,  
>You swear to build,<br>We swear to come,  
>And burn it down<br>And burn it down."_

_Taken from the song 'Untitled 5' by Brand New._

Jim sat lazily in his chair and smiled at Sherlock and John as the two moved closer to one another. The woman, Heidi, stood in a solitary spot as she watched them, her gun still drawn.

"Now look at the happy couple." Jim smiled ruefully. He hated Sherlock. He hated John more to taking Sherlock from him. He was the one that called some months ago about the flat, and it seemed that Sherlock wanted someone like himself, a sociopath, and Jim didn't know how to respond then. Now he was coming full force and this time Sherlock didn't know how to respond. That's what happens when you tell someone you have a rotting body in your tub. They could have been great, they could have been fantastic.

"What do you want Jim?" Sherlock said impatiently. He spoke to Jim like he spoke to Mycroft, like a brother that was just too bothersome to be dealt with nicely. "I'm quite busy working on murder cases."

"Oh, I'll solve it for you." Jim stood. "This woman, Heidi, didn't understand 'John Watson' so she just abducted doctors and so I had to kill them and throw their bodies in the river." Jim shrugged. "Better then letting them rot in a tub." Sherlock flinched at that.

"You outdid yourself this time Jim, I had no idea it was you." Sherlock began to walk away from John and towards Jim himself.

"I was going to move the letters of my name around to form a new one, but none sounded Russian enough." Jim shrugged and frowned in a slightly sideways fashion. "Mit Oriarjy sounds to chinese."

Sherlock was only five feet from Jim at this point. The woman had her gun raised to Sherlock waiting for him to lunge or otherwise make an aggressive advance. She was just a puppet in Jim's games, and now there were two more pawns playing.  
>"Jimmy you have to learn sooner or later I will catch you." Sherlock wasn't smiling. He was dead serious. "And whether that be now, later it will happen."<br>"I don't think so Holmes." Jim began to walk around the room like Sherlock had done earlier. "You and I are the same. We think the same, and we will always be a step ahead of the other. I will not be caught and you will not be fooled. It's elementary my dear Sherlock." Jim laughed obnoxiously.

"Except that you've overlooked one thing." Sherlock smiled. "We're together right now and that means that you may be caught and I haven't been fooled."

"Oh, but you have. Those tanks aren't actually oxygen, they're poison gas that will kill you in... Very soon. Heidi and I have the antidote so we will live." Jim sighed. "Sad that a pretty face like yours is going to be six feet under sooner than it should be."

"Oh god... Sherlock." John looked at him. He had been in here for a longer than Sherlock had meaning he was going to die first. He didn't know how long he had left.

"John..." Sherlock backed away from Moriarty and went to John. He felt the pulse in his neck, it was faster than normal, his pupils were normal and his breathing was fast but not erratic. "Cure him."

"Doctor in the house? Is there a doctor? It seems these two men are going to die." Jim laughed and sat in his chair.

"Shut up Jim and tell me what you want." Sherlock walked back over to Jim and was closer to him than before. Sherlock towered over the suited man in the chair. Jim didn't flinch.

"What will you do for me? What is the most you will sacrifice for your friend?" Jim raised a brow.

"Tell me what you want!" Sherlock shouted. Jim's face remained unchanged. For an expressive man he could hold it together very well.  
>"I want..." Jim stood. "You." He smiled wildly.<p>

"What?" Sherlock scoffed. "That's absurd."

"Is it? This is what, our third endeavor together? Yet you still didn't realize, and you don't now. You're an idiot Sherlock. Use your deductive powers and tell me what I just said." Jim looked genuinely angry.

"You... You gave me your number that first time in the hospital, then in the pool you..." Sherlock trailed off, his lips still moving but no words coming out. He stopped finally and looked from Jim to John. He finally realized.

Sherlock walked over to Jim in two short strides and smashed his lips onto Jim's. They were connected finally. Sherlock's hands were on either side of Jim's head and he was pulling the slighter man closer to him. John watched from across the room and Heidi stood, her gun at her side.

"Is this what you want?" Sherlock had his forehead pressed against Jim's, his hands now drifted to the man's shoulders.

"Always." Jim went in for another kiss but was denied.

"Then fix him." Sherlock gave Jim a taste and that's all he needed.

"Kiss me first." Jim had the upper hand. He was the one with the antidote and he could demand whatever he wanted.

Sherlock pulled Jim by the tie and ruggedly kissed his lips. The tie tightened and Jim put his arms up onto Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him close. Their bodies were flush against one another and Jim pulled away to look at John. It added insult to injury.

"Oh Johnny boy." Jim sighed. "Never will you get the cure. I've got what I want, and you will still die."

"You will cure him now." Sherlock demanded. He swiftly grabbed Jim by the tie and had him pressed against the wall.

"Why?" Jim laughed. "Because you want me to? Because you love him? Is that it? You love him and you hate me so why let the one you hate kiss you when the one you love is going to die in a matter of minutes?" Jim sneered. "I told you I was going to burn the heart out of you, and by letting John Watson die is the best way to do it."

Then the door burst open, and Jim pushed Sherlock off of him and out into the center of the room. Lestrade was there with his gun aimed at anyone and everyone. He saw Jim running and heard Sherlock yell to shoot him and he fired. Jim dodged the first bullet and he had thrown the woman in the path of the next three bullets as he made his getaway through the back door. Heidi took the shots to the chest and stomach. John ran to help her, she was bleeding to death and gasping her final breaths as he got to her.

"Grace Williams." She whispered to John in her final breath.

"Who was that?" Lestrade said as he ran in to the woman and knelt next to John.

"She's gone." John checked her pulse. His hands were covered in her blood. "She said a name. Grace Williams."  
>"It's her name." Sherlock chimed in. "She went missing five weeks ago." Sherlock turned and went to leave. "We have to leave now."<br>"Sherlock." Lestrade said. "What happened here?"  
>"We have to leave, Lestrade. Now." Sherlock left the room.<p>

"Well?" Lestrade looked at John as he grabbed the phones out of the woman's pockets before following Lestrade.

"Jim Moriarty. That was the man. He had me abducted to lure Sherlock in because... Because Sherlock and I are friends. Those tanks in the corner are releasing poison gas into the air and you, Sherlock and I are all contaminated now." John spoke about that evening's events.  
>"We have to get you to the hospital." Lestrade said before speaking into his car's radio that there was a murder at 32 Lakefront Drive and to send in a special team to check out the toxins. It was all going to be taken care of. The sun was halfway set as they headed to the hospital. It was going to be a late night.<p>

Later at the hospital they were told that there was no poison in anyone's bodies. It was all a hoax. Sherlock was unsurprised and John just accepted the news with relief. He didn't want to die yet. Lestrade was relieved as well. They had all escaped this ordeal physically unscathed.

The cab ride back to the flat was silent and awkward between John and Sherlock. Few words were exchanged, which was normal, but tension hung in the air and that made it unbearable. John had dealt with death, he saw it daily in Afghanistan, but he hadn't dealt with love much in his life. He had a girlfriend, fiance rather, before the war that left him when he was overseas. It was cruel. He was going back to dating but with Sherlock who was an overbearing flatmate made things difficult.

"I'm glad you aren't dead." Sherlock said when they were close to the destination.

"I'm glad you didn't die either." John responded.

Sherlock had nothing to say after this. The car was silent once more. The cabbie didn't even have the radio on. The car ride seemed to take hours when in reality it took about fifteen to twenty minutes. The traffic was light seeing as it was almost two am. Their hospital stay was lengthy but their police report took even longer. John's story was long, and both of them had to tell what happened that evening. Things seemed to be going in slow motion since leaving the warehouse.

They entered the flat and they shed their coats and placed them wherever. John needed sleep, Sherlock needed solitude. He hated what Jim did to John, what he was put through. He needed to be alone and think about how this was going to flood into he and John's relationship.

"Are you going to leave?" Sherlock asked as John picked up his mug to make tea. He sounded childlike and afraid.

"Only if you want me to leave." John said reassuringly and went into the kitchen.

"I don't want you to leave." Sherlock said in a quiet voice. "I've had thirty-four flatmates. All of which left me."  
>"I won't go." John didn't know what to say. Lestrade told John that Sherlock had only twenty-seven other flatmates. Sherlock never opened up like this. For as long as John knew Sherlock the man had not opened up. There had been 'danger nights' where Sherlock was incredibly depressed or angry or any extreme emotion, but never had he opened up.<p>

"I'm sorry Jim did that." Sherlock said after a pause. John had gone to the kitchen and Sherlock was standing in the archway. The table was full of beakers and test tubes and there were papers scattered about.

"Don't be." John said. The kettle on the stove was starting to heat up finally and he put the tea bag into his mug. Earl Grey, that was his favorite. Sherlock liked coffee, and he liked it black.

"I..." Sherlock didn't know what to say. "I do love you, John. You're the only flatmate that hasn't hated me within a week."

John had no idea what to say to this at all. He just stood and looked at Sherlock as the man stood in the archway between the kitchen and living room. John hoped that Sherlock would go reenact Macbeth scenes with his skull, or play violin. Anything. Talking with Sherlock was like talking to an encyclopedia at times. Full of facts and information about things all over the earth and farther.

Sherlock left. He had scared John with opening up. It scared most people. Sherlock didn't do it often and when he did things poured out and nothing was going to dam it up. That day Sherlock had almost lost his best friend and the only person he really loved in his life. Things were okay right now, but he had no idea where things would be headed next with Jim still out there.

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Well, here we are again. So soon, too. You will probably be seeing updates sooner rather than later since I have the next four chapters planned out already, more or less. **_

_**Also, funny story, I saved this chapter and moved the file into a folder for this story and then tried to open it after the fact and my computer told me that this file didn't exist. I was ready to freak out because I thought I accidentally deleted this entire chapter.**_


	4. You said I've got this heart of gold

_**Warning- The following story may or may not contain explicit slash between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Consider yourself warned...**_  
><em><span><strong>Disclaimer- None of the characters you are about to read of belong to me. I am only using them for my sick and twisted enjoyment... And yours. Pervert.<strong>_

"_You said I've got this heart of gold._

_But down it goes._

_My mind is growing cold,_

_And my family knows._

_I'm getting tired of standing on my toes,_

_but who knows?"_

_Taken from the song 'Heart of Gold' by Mat Kerekes._

John stood before Mycroft in an empty parking garage one night. This has happened many times before. The first time it occurred John thought he was going to be murdered by Sherlock's arch nemesis. Turns out it was only Sherlock's brother coming to check on Sherlock and his new flat mate. This was normal protocol.

"How has he been?" Mycroft asked coolly

"He's okay." John responded. Mycroft hated short answer and John didn't really like Mycroft.

"How about with you?" Mycroft paused before the last word. He wasn't sure if it was the right question to ask.

"He cares." John said.

"He loves you." Mycroft shrugged. "You're the best flat mate so far and the one that's stayed the longest as well. Having you around has made him a better person in some ways, it's good thing."

"He doesn't like to think he is a good person at heart." John spoke.

"You're right, but I let him think that I think he's awful, but in reality he cares. He doesn't show it with most people because most people he knows don't like him. Besides feelings interfere with his work." Mycroft shrugged as he spoke. John checked his phone. There was a text from Sherlock for him to return home as soon as possible.

"Was that from him?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes." John said. This response reminded him of Sherlock and he one word answers.

"I assume he's asking you to return home as soon as you can. Meaning right now." Mycroft nodded. He was a genius just like his brother. "Well, seeing as you must be going Mariana will take you back to the car and you will be going back to 221B Baker Street."

"Goodbye Mycroft." John said as he turned to leave. There was no response. John looked back and Mycroft was gone.

John returned home and Sherlock was laying on the couch in the fetal position. He was wearing his robe and pajamas. He wasn't watching anything, he was just staring. Well maybe he was watching something, but it wasn't obvious to John like it was to Sherlock. John went in to his computer and looked at the screen. His blog hadn't been updated since the investigation of the murders of the doctors. He hadn't put all the details about that night but he just posted that the crime had been solved and all was well. That was at least four days ago.

"John." Sherlock said. "Mycroft spoke to you didn't he?" Sherlock was half sitting up and was looking at John. The man's eyes were tired looking and his face was pale. His eyes seemed bright in the dimly lit room. John turned his desk light on and the room was flooded with light.

"Yes." John said. "He was talking about you."  
>"What did he say?" Sherlock sat up completely now. John tried not to make any facial expression and stood completely still. Sherlock could read everything about John. "What did he say, John?" <p>

"He said how that you're not a bad person, and I agreed. In fact I said that you're quite a good person underneath it all." John shrugged and sat at his desk.

"Why did you say that?" Sherlock wasn't just curious he was generally inquiring how John came to the conclusion that Sherlock was an okay person.

"You gave up what you could to get the antidote for me to live, not for yourself. You care and that's enough to be a good person. You solve murders and make it so the bad guy get's what he deserves." John wasn't looking at Sherlock as he finished the sentence, he was looking at his computer screen.

Sherlock was laying back down and was soon asleep, only this time he was flat on his bag with his body spread out on the couch. It wasn't late, something like six o'clock in the afternoon. As soon as Sherlock was asleep John took out his phone and looked at the messages Sherlock sent him on the day of the incident. There were ones ranging from where Sherlock was going to be to how Sherlock was worried now that John was gone for eleven hours now without any sort of communication. Sherlock was worried about John. John smiled at the message and looked over to the sleeping man on the couch.

Sherlock's hair was splayed on the pillow where his head rest. The man's face was relaxed and completely devoid of emotion. Sherlock's lips were slightly parted and the small triangles that made up his top lip looked more chapped than the bottom. When Sherlock was thinking particularly hard about something he bit his top lip rather than the bottom like most people. This resulted in a chapped upper lip. John's eyes dropped to Sherlock's neck. It was thin and very muscular. The near synthetic looking skin was pulled tight over every muscle and vein in the neck. It would look better with bruises from being bitten. John could even see the slight movement of Sherlock's adam's apple as he slowly inhaled and exhaled. God he could stare at that neck for days. John's gaze continued to lower to the slightly moving and exposed chest. John could only see to a little below Sherlock's collar bone but the bones of the chest cavity still bulged noticeably. If John kept staring he was sure holes would start to burn into the transparent skin. Finally John's eyes fixated on the sharp hips of his flatmate. The thin fabric of his boxers and the robe didn't do much to hide the prominent hip bones protruding from underneath the cloth.

John tore his eyes away after several minutes of just staring at the other man. He got up and went to the closet and pulled a blanket from the shelf, which he then unfolded and lay over Sherlock's sleeping form. John shut off the lights, locked the door, made sure the bunsen burner in the kitchen was off, and closed the one slightly cracked window. Fall days were good to air out the flat but at night Sherlock would have been shivering through his sleep.

"Goodnight Sherlock." John whispered as he went upstairs to his own bed.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He wasn't sleeping at all. He just didn't want to talk to John anymore at that time. Sherlock sat up and felt the blanket fall down his body and bunch in his lap. John had placed it there after he was finished burning holes into Sherlock's flesh. Sherlock had slept on the couch many a times, nothing was different about this occasion.

Sherlock stood to go to his own bed but stopped at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the second room. Should he? John may have been awake still, but it was unlikely. He had a busy day and was tired when he got home. Then again he didn't go to sleep right away, instead he talked to Sherlock and stared a little. Now it was Sherlock's turn to stare, only John would be sleeping this time.

He snuck up the stairs. Each stair seemed to moan and groan under his weight, only at night were things like this so loud. Sherlock finally reached the top of the stairs and looked inside the room where John slept. His body was turned away from the door and he was fast asleep. Sherlock entered the room and walked to the side where he could seen John's face.

John slept without a shirt on, and Sherlock could see his scarred chest perfectly as it basked in the moonlight. It begged to be touched. John's brows were furrowed, but his breathing was normal, so perhaps he was going into a dream. Sherlock watched. John's hands clenched and unclenched the blankets, the rest of his body was still. His eyes remained shut but now he wore a frown. There were creases in John's face and the shadows cast by the moonlight seemed to make him look older. Sherlock knelt next to the bed and stared at John's face. It continued to tense and relax as he gazed. John's lips were now parted and the tips of his teeth were showing. How he wanted those teeth to drag along his neck and collarbone.

"I'm glad you're alive John." Sherlock whispered and reached out to touch John's face.

With that Sherlock stood and left the room. It was late by now but Sherlock stood outside the room and watched John sleep for at least another twenty minutes. He wanted so much to touch his face again and feel the skin of a man he almost lost. Instead of doing that he went back downstairs and into his own room. He lay awake staring at the ceiling for just a few minutes for drifting off to sleep where he dreamed of John, Lestrade, Jim and Grace the dead girl.

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Nothing to really say about this chapter... Expect something as early as tomorrow, I had school off the day I wrote this (1/10) so lots of writings is likely to be done. **_

_**-a**_


	5. Oh, it's so hard to have someone to love

_**Warning- The following story may or may not contain explicit slash between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Consider yourself warned...**_  
><em><strong>Disclaimer- None of the characters you are about to read of belong to me. I am only using them for my sick and twisted enjoyment... And yours. Pervert.<strong>_

"_Oh, it's so hard to have someone to love,_

_'Cause you can't keep a secret_

_If it never was a secret to start._

_At least pretend you didn't want to get caught."_

_Taken from the song 'Okay, I believe you but my tommy gun don't' by Brand New._

They were sitting in the living room, John and Sherlock. Sherlock at his chair looking out the window holding his violin. He was playing a few minutes ago but slowed and finally stopped, he seemed to be thinking and his thoughts were too deep to be playing at the same time. John was reading and drinking tea in the couch a few feet away. They were almost out of milk again and it was John's turn to go to the store. His book was boring him so he decided to go now.

"I'm going out for milk." John was putting on his coat and standing by the door.

"What store?" Sherlock asked, not looking at John.

"The one down the street. I don't know what it's called." John shrugged and opened the door. "I'll be back soon."

It was true. John was home soon. About twenty minutes after he left he was already home. The flat was completely silent when he returned. John put the milk in the refrigerator and listened for any sign of life. He went into the living room and no one was there, next he went into Sherlock's bedroom and that was empty as well. This is what it must have been like for Sherlock coming home and finding John was missing. John went up the stairs to his own room to see if Sherlock was there. He slowly peered around the banister at the top of the stairs and saw Sherlock was laying on his bed. He was flat on the bed face down.

John went to open his mouth but didn't. Instead he watched Sherlock to make sure he was breathing, which he was. On the floor next to the bed was Sherlock's violin and bow as if he had just went upstairs while playing and decided to lay down.

"Sherlock?" John whispered. "Sherlock?" He said louder this time.

Sherlock's head rose and he turned to look at John. He climbed out of the bed an walked straight for John. John didn't know what he was doing so he backed away and right against a wall. Sherlock was standing three inches away from John and was staring into his face. Sherlock placed his hands on the wall on either side of John's head. Their bodies were barely touching. Heat radiated between them as they looked at each other.

"I really love your bed, John." Sherlock spoke quietly and swallowed after speaking. "It smells just like you." Those five words were spoken just as quietly as the others.

Sherlock began to lean in with his head turned and his lips slightly parted. John didn't back away, he moved his face forward as well. Their lips were mere inches apart, centimeters, millimeters.

The phone rang. It was in Sherlock's pocket and it started to ring incessantly. Their lips barely grazed together and Sherlock immediately backed away from John and looked at his phone. He rolled his eyes and answered it. His one hand on his hip as he walked around the room.

"What?" He asked in an annoyed tone. Sherlock sighed. "Fine, we'll be there."

"What was that?" John asked.

"Lestrade." Sherlock licked his lips and bent to pick up his violin and bow before leaving.

John went downstairs a few moments after Sherlock. His face felt hot and he couldn't think straight. It was all blurry as he walked down the stairs and followed Sherlock outside to flag down a taxi. Once inside John was collected. His mind was clearing as he prepared himself to investigate a murder. Sherlock was texting on his phone and looked up every once in a while. As soon as he was finished he put his hand on John's knee and left it there during the trip. Sherlock looked at John and John at Sherlock. Uncertainty hung on both their faces.

"Oh the happy couple has arrived." Anderson sneered as Sherlock and John arrived.

"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock said, completely ignoring the comment.

"Sherlock, over here!" Lestrade called from across the parking. He was standing next to a car with all it's doors open and what seemed to be a body inside.

Sherlock and John walked across the parking lot. Sherlock took long strides and John took shorter quicker steps, yet they walked at the same speed. Sherlock didn't even speak to Lestrade he immediately went right to looking at the car and the person inside of it. The trunk was opened and inside there was nothing. The car was completely clean and looked brand new, but it wasn't. It was from years ago but was cleaned up to look nice. It wasn't recently bought either. It must have been a rental.

Sherlock pulled up local car rentals on his phone and came up with Westminster Car Loan. It was just ten kilometers from that spot and had cars of the same make and model as this. They would just have to go there and find who this person was and then they would move to step two.

"Anything?" Lestrade spoke.  
>"The car is from Westminster Car Loans. That's ten kilometers from here. Find the place find and find out who this person is." Sherlock went onto looking at the person.<p>

They were strapped in, and the car was on. The headlights were off so the battery had died. The windows were up and it was assumed that the doors were closed when the police arrived. The person, male, age approximately forty-seven, brown hair thinning and graying, no beard, wearing contacts, brown eyes, skin was pale, no rashes from what could be seen. His clothes were dry as well, his sneakers were clean, his pants were newer than the shirt and the coat, and an old bowler hat lay in the passenger seat.

"I'm finished here. Call me when you know anything else." Sherlock didn't really care about the case and hoped no one called. He didn't need any more intrusions.

Sherlock turned to leave the scene. John hadn't noticed and when Sherlock realized he wasn't at his side he turned back around and grabbed John by the hand and practically dragged him from the scene. Everyone gawked as John's shoulder was nearly dislocate. Anderson sneered as the two passed.

"Have a pleasant ride home, love birds." Anderson frowned. He hated Sherlock, but now that Sherlock had a friend it made his distaste even stronger. Even looking at them together disgusted him. He was certain that they were together. It was the worst kept secret in all of Westminster.

The cab ride home was better than the ride to the scene. Sherlock didn't touch John this time, which was good for John. He liked Sherlock. John had no idea how Sherlock felt about him... Perhaps Sherlock did like him, and what happened at the flat was his way of telling John.

The first time John and Mycroft met was interesting. John was told that Sherlock trusted him more than any other flat mate- or person, really- ever. Sherlock had no one before John. John was also warned that Sherlock may act strangely towards John at any and all times. John was told that if Sherlock wants something, more likely than not he will get it by almost any means necessary, so if he comes to John about something it is of the up most importance that John do it or have it done. Mycroft was just protecting his brother, but the looming possibilities of what Sherlock may want and where John would draw the line.

They entered the flat and hung up their coats, scarves and what have you. John went into the kitchen for tea and Sherlock followed. John hadn't realized this until he felt Sherlock's hands on his shoulders pulling him away from the sink. Sherlock then pushed John back against the wall of the kitchen.

"Where were we?" John spoke. Sherlock smiled slightly but it dropped almost as immediately as it appeared.

_**Author's Note:**_

_**I went back and changed this so much, so I'm sorry if it sucks. I wanted it to be corny in a way but still good. I guess you will be the judge of that. Either way, I hope you liked this chapter, and the story as a whole so far.  
><strong>_

_**-a**_


	6. Hallelujah

_**Warning- The following story may or may not contain explicit slash between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Consider yourself warned...**_  
><em><strong>Disclaimer- None of the characters you are about to read of belong to me. I am only using them for my sick and twisted enjoyment... And yours. Pervert.<strong>_

"_Well maybe there's a God above,  
>But all I've ever learned from love<br>Was how to shoot somebody who'd out drew you.  
>And it's not a cry that you hear at night,<br>It's not somebody who's seen in the light,  
>It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah...<br>Hallelujah  
>Hallelujah<br>Hallelujah  
>Hallelujah"<em>

_Taken from the song 'Hallelujah' by Jeff Buckley._

Sherlock had John pressed against the wall. His hands were on John's shoulders holding him in place. Sherlock went in to what it seemed to be a kiss, but it wasn't. Sherlock's left hand moved onto John's neck.

"Your eyes are dilated and your heart is racing." He whispered. "You like this."  
>"And so do you." John looked at Sherlock's eyes. His pupils were massive.<p>

"I'm a virgin." Sherlock said.

"I'm not." John responded instantaneously.

"Did you fuck a woman in Afghanistan?" Sherlock's one eyebrow went up.

"No." John tried to back away but he was against a wall.

"A man?" Sherlock bit his upper lip.

"No... I-I didn't fuck anyone in Afghanistan, Sherlock."

"Interesting. Most people, when faced with possibly dying, they tend to get what they can when they can." Sherlock's eyes looked away in thought.  
>"I first had sex with my ex-wife, and later after the divorce with a girlfriend." John said.<p>

"Good." Sherlock pushed John against the wall more harshly this time.

Sherlock's face was so close to John's. Their noses were touching, their forehead's were barely touching and their lips were separated by mere air molecules. They were so close. John finally broke the space and his lips met Sherlock's. So it began.

"John..." Sherlock mumbled as he pulled back from the kiss. "I don't-"

"Shut up, Sherlock." John was in control now. Sherlock no longer could pin him to the wall.

John pushed Sherlock off of him into the center of the kitchen. Sherlock looked hurt, like he had been denied. If only he knew. John grabbed Sherlock and now was walking him by the hand to Sherlock's room. Sherlock was pushed onto the bed and when he landed his arms went above his head.

"Take off your shirt." John said as he started to shed his own.

Sherlock sat up and started to unbutton his gray shirt. He was halfway done when John sighed an practically ripped the shirt from Sherlock's body. Sherlock just looked at him. His body was now exposed. John grabbed Sherlock's hands and pulled him so he stood. They were so close, their bodies touched in almost every spot.

"Trousers..." John mumbled as his hands started to undo the belt before Sherlock's hands took over. John then worked at his own fly.

Sherlock's pants hung on his hips, John's dropped to the floor immediately. Sherlock swallowed. What was he doing? What was John doing? John grabbed Sherlock by the face and crashed their lips together. Sherlock's arms were at his sides and he went to move them but John quickly shoved him back onto the bed. John grabbed Sherlock's trousers and pulled them off completely and threw them to the floor to join the rest of the clothes.

John climbed into the bed and lay next to Sherlock. John pulled Sherlock so they were facing one another. John's lips connected with Sherlock's neck and he bit down softly. He heard Sherlock gasp slightly and bit harder. Sherlock's gasp was louder and more ragged this time. John got up out of bed and completely left the room.

"John?" Sherlock sat up halfway and looked as far into the hallway as he could. "John what are you-"  
>"We will start with the riding crop." John held up the riding crop that Sherlock used on dead bodies.<br>"I..." Sherlock looked at it.

John stood on the bed over Sherlock and sat so he was straddling the man. Sherlock inhaled sharply at the feeling of this new weight on his crotch. John took the leather piece and slowly ran it over Sherlock's neck an chin. His fingers felt Sherlock's chest and tried to memorize all the bumps and curves of the skin. Sherlock's fingers were drawn to John's neck and shoulders.

"I was shot." John said as Sherlock's hands caressed over the disgustingly large scar on his shoulder. John's scar was wide and splintered out to near his collar bone and down to just a few inches above his nipple.

The riding crop held back and swung down to land on Sherlock's shoulder. The slap of leather on living skin was beautiful. The feeling of pain reverberated through Sherlock's body all the way down his toes. It felt like every nerve ending in his body was on fire and the flames were set by John himself.

After the solid hit to the shoulder John bent to kiss the reddening flesh. His attention was then drawn to Sherlock's neck. His mind flipped back to the other day when he was watching the man sleep and how he wanted to bruise the perfect skin. His mouth bit down harshly, just like before, but the pressure was different this time. It was a quick jolt of pain followed by moments of pleasure and Sherlock couldn't get enough. The skin there was already bruising as John pulled away just enough to glance, and went back to his ministrations.

"John..." Sherlock mumbled as his fingers wound into the blonde hair.

John pulled away enough to slide his arm between himself and Sherlock. His hand groped around Sherlock's hips and finally found the spot he was looking for. Sherlock pulled John closer to him and his hips rose into John's hand.

John moved his hands to Sherlock's and took them above his head and held them there. Sherlock's abdomen was stretched now, every muscle in his stomach and chest was pulled taut. John's other hand explored the flat body, every ridge was felt and memorized. John picked up the riding crop and poised it above his head and brought it down right on Sherlock's sternum. It knocked the breath out of the man. Mouth to mouth resuscitation was required. No chest compressions though. Sherlock's heart hadn't stopped yet.

"John." Sherlock's arms broke from John's grip and landed splayed at his sides. John thought this made Sherlock look like the crucified Christ. All he needed was the crown of thorns and the large gash in his side. John took the riding crop and struck the man beneath him where the gash would have been, and it left a large and angry looking welt.

Sherlock writhed, he was such a virgin. Though, to this, John was as well. He has never had sex with a man, and never used a riding crop with anyone before. It was all new, and all so exciting. John looked down at Sherlock. The man's eyes were now open and his breathing was leveling out. Can't have that.

"Sherlock." John rolled so Sherlock was on top and between John's legs.

Sherlock looked at the man below him. John's eyes were dark, his cheeks were flushed, his body was hot. Sherlock pushed the hair out of John's face and leaned in for a slow kiss. It was shaky. John's arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck and pulled him down completely. John's legs stayed wrapped around the impossibly small waist. The kiss deepened and John rolled his hips into Sherlock's and moaned at the friction. Their bodies grinding together, the pressure turned their bones into dust.

Sherlock moved against John, their bodies touching in the most intimate of places. John moved his hips up and pulled Sherlock down. Oh god the friction between them was beyond intense.

"Jo-ohn..." Sherlock's words stumbled from his throat.

John grabbed Sherlock's chin roughly and kissed his lips harshly. John rolled so he was back on top. John's hands roved over the bare body beneath him before tugging at the thin fabric hung over Sherlock's hips. Sherlock looked up at John and nodded. John lifted himself from Sherlock's body and pulled at his own boxers leaving Sherlock to his own devices. Within minutes they were laying in the position just as before.

John's hands went up to Sherlock's mouth and pushed inward. The tips were accepted but the rest of the fingers were reluctantly pushed in. Sherlock began to suck on them and in John's other hand he spit and began stroke himself. This is as much preparation he could give Sherlock.

The next thing felt made Sherlock shudder and shake. John's first finger began to press into him and slowly so did two others. It was a horribly amazing feeling. Sherlock had a vice grip on John's shoulders and was not letting up, John just continued to calm him and tell him to relax. He remembered watching those videos with his ex-wife about birthing classes when she wanted a baby, his favorite line was 'remember to tell your partner to breath and stay calm.' He so wanted to tell Sherlock this, but decided against it.

"Are you ready?" John asked one final time.

"Yes." Sherlock whispered. His eyes were open and looking at John. They burned right through him and right up into the ceiling. Soon enough the smoke from the burning would set off the alarms and they would have to evacuate.

John pulled back and slowly began to push into Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed. It was painful, so painful. God, but it felt so so good. Sherlock's hips rose and John was soon completely inside. He waited patiently for Sherlock to relax more before moving.

"Sher... Sherlock..." John muttered as his thrusts picked up pace ever so slightly.  
>"Harder." Sherlock pulled John closer to him and arched his back.<p>

Sherlock's legs spread farther, John was thrusting deeper. John's hands were holding the other man's arms in place but soon moved to his hips. Sherlock was hanging on the blankets and John's hair and John's arms and practically anything he could grip. It felt so intensely painful but so beautifully electrifying.

John's body ground into Sherlock's and they fit together like two halves of a whole. John's body began to unwind but Sherlock wasn't as far. John reached down and limply gripped Sherlock and began to stroke. The movements were slight and very sloppy but they intensified the waves of pleasure every time John moved a certain way or hit a certain spot.

"Sherlock..." John mumbled as he plowed into the other man. Their movements became fluid. "Oh god."

Sherlock raised his hips, the sensations of pleasure increased ten fold. Sherlock began to quiver with every movement from John. Sherlock's lips mouthed words but nothing was coming out besides exasperated breaths.

Small fragments of word could be made out until Sherlock filled his lungs one final time before finally reaching his peak. His head was thrown backward into the bed, leaving his neck exposed, his mouth was wide open and his eyes were squeezed shut. Sherlock's back arched, every muscle in his back was tense. His brain was trying to compute what he was feeling but wave after wave of ecstasy blurred his thoughts into oblivion. His entire body felt like it was vibrating, every bone was shaking to the core. He would need a marrow transplant after this.

John dug his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck and moaned as he met his completion, the vibrations of the sound reverberated through the skin and into the already vibrating bones. Every muscle in John's body was screaming, every single cell was burning alive at the feeling of it all. It was as if the whole house was on fire and they were in the center where the fire was white hot and scorched their nerves.

John rolled off of Sherlock, his breath still heaving. Sherlock's eyes were open and he was looking around. The black hair along his forehead was pressed against the sweaty skin. Both of them were covered in sweat and cum. The bed was ruined, but in a good way. Sherlock looked down at himself. His naked body looked red from the friction, and the bruise on his ribcage looked as if it were a furious mountain among the red lands of the rest of Sherlock's body.

"I used to live alone before I knew you." Sherlock spoke, his breath finally catching up to him.

Sherlock rolled and faced John. Their legs intertwined. John's hand rose to touch Sherlock's face, his skin was sweaty. He would need a shower. Sherlock leaned and kissed John's lips slowly, their movements were slow and languid now. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and they lay close together. They fell asleep like that.

John woke up after a few hours, and went over to Sherlock's door and retrieved his robe. He wanted tea and intended to make it with some sort of clothing on. He didn't even want to imagine pouring boiling water on bare flesh. Sherlock sat up attentively, his hair was a horrendous and sweaty mess, parts of it pressed to his forehead. It was his crown of thorns.

"You're not wearing that." Sherlock said. Aside from his appearance Sherlock wasn't giving enough to be the actual Christ. "That's what I'm wearing."  
>"What will I wear then?" John looked around the room.<br>"The sheet." Sherlock got up and handed John the blanket and slipped his robe on, before he left the room Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's lips.

_**Author's Note:**_

_**I've gone back and changed this so many times, it's obscene. This took me so long to write, it's probably been longer than a week.  
><strong>_

_**-a**_


	7. Under blue moon I saw you

_**Warning- The following story may or may not contain explicit slash between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Consider yourself warned...**_  
><em><span><strong>Disclaimer- None of the characters you are about to read of belong to me. I am only using them for my sick and twisted enjoyment... And yours. Pervert.<strong>_

"_Under blue moon I saw you  
>So soon you'll take me<br>Up in your arms  
>Too late to beg you or cancel it<br>Though I know it must be the killing time  
>Unwillingly mine" <em>

_Taken from the song 'The Killing Moon' by Echo and the Bunny Men._

John was laying in Sherlock's bed. His eyes staring at the blank ceiling. He rolled onto his side and looked out the large bay window in the room. The eerie blue moonlight streaming in through the open curtains. The bed still smelled like Sherlock, but John would have to stop sleeping in here or it would smell like himself. It would defeat the purpose, _obviously. _God, he was even thinking like Sherlock.

"John..." A voice, an incredibly familiar voice, called from the darkest corner of the room.

"I wondered when you'd be back." John sat up. Sherlock stepped out into the moonlight. His high cheekbones cast long shadows down his face.

John got out from under the covers, he wasn't wearing a shirt and the cool air hit his skin immediately eliciting goose bumps. They moved towards one another until they were mere molecules apart.

"I can't stay." Sherlock spoke quietly. "Someone is watching the house."  
>"I know." John saw the same black car parked outside almost every day. Mycroft's.<p>

Sherlock leaned in to kiss John but the slighter man backed up. Sherlock opened his eyes and analyzed John. He could sense the tension but ignored it.

"I know you're angry." Sherlock spoke quietly. "You heard the entire conversation, you knew what was going on, you shouldn't be angry."  
>"You could tell me where you are or what you're doing. You're losing weight, it's in your face. You're more pale than before." John's tone gained harshness as he spoke.<p>

"I'm staying with Molly. She knows as well, she did the autopsy. I can't leave the house for fear of others seeing me, and I can't get a hold of family funds because I'm dead, and Molly doesn't have the money to support herself as well as me." Sherlock began to pace the room, his tone sharpening as well.  
>"You could have fucking done something to let me know." John walked over to where Sherlock had stopped. They were by the door that lead out of the room, the beam of moonlight hit them perfectly.<p>

"I'm sorry John." Sherlock's hand found John's shoulder. He traced his fingers over the scarred flesh where John was shot. John hated the scar, Sherlock thought it was interesting. "I love you."  
>Sherlock bent to kiss John's massive scar and worked his lips up John's shoulder and neck. John's hands pushed Sherlock away from him and he tugged at his coat and scarf. Sherlock quickly shrugged the coat off and unraveled the scarf from his neck, both were tossed on the threadbare chair in the corner. Sherlock moved towards John once more, finally being able to get close without interruption.<p>

John, in one fluid motion, grabbed Sherlock by his shirt collar and threw him to the bed. The top few buttons on the shirt had busted off at this point but their whereabouts were nothing to be concerned with. John got into the bed next to Sherlock and both sat up slightly to shed their clothes.

John was working on the third button on Sherlock's shirt before swearing under his breath and ripping the shirt from the pale body. It was thrown to the floor. John sat atop Sherlock and stared down as his perfect body. There was nothing but solid skin, no scars, no bruising, no scratches, nothing. John's skin was riddled with wounds of times now and of times long gone.

"John." Sherlock's voice was heavy and thick with rasp. "I haven't a whole lot of time."  
>"I know." John's eyes met Sherlock's. "But when are we going to be able to do this again? It has to count."<p>

John leaned down and grazed his callous hands over the soft flesh and reached Sherlock's neck and jawline. He wanted this to last forever, just this, but he had little time and things were to be rushed. He pulled the pale man up to meet his lips and Sherlock's hands were in John's hair. Sherlock pulled away to unzip his trousers and John shoved him flat back on the bed and pulled his own down.

Moments later they were skin against skin in the bed, their bodies connecting against one another at almost every possible spot. John moved Sherlock on top of him and wrapped his legs around his waist. Sherlock moved back from John and to the bedside table for the small bottle of lubricant. Sherlock coated himself and tossed the bottle aside, it was irrelevant to this situation now.

"Sherlock..." John said as he felt Sherlock push into him, half reminding him that it was in fact Sherlock.

Sherlock's hands found John's shoulders and began to slowly push himself in and pull back out. John writhed beneath him, his face tensing and relaxing with each of Sherlock's motions. Sherlock cupped John's face in his hands and moved to kiss his lips and face. This could be their last time together, at least for a while. Sherlock didn't want to think about that now, but his brain wouldn't stop reminding him, and all he wanted was to be surrounded by John and forget about all the bad that has happened.

"Oh, John..." Sherlock sounded sad, and a little broken. His voice was soft, barely a whisper.  
>John had one hand wrapped around himself and the other gripping the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him closer to him. John was moving erratically, his breathing was quick and shallow. He was getting closer, he could feel the tension pooling in his stomach and Sherlock's breathy moans into his ear wasn't slowing the process.<p>

"I love you, Sherlock." John muttered, and repeated several times, into Sherlock's skin.

"I've missed you so, John, I love you... Oh god..." His words were lost in his climax.

His back arched forward and his face pushed into John's neck and Sherlock moaned loudly. The intensity of the moan vibrated through John's neck and into his nerves. His body shook as his head pushed into the pillows, his mouth wide open but no sound was coming out. He raked his nails across Sherlock's back as he pulled him down closer. Their bodies melded together as one in these few moments.

"I have to go soon..." Sherlock said. Soon mean five minutes ago, but neither wanted him to leave.

"I know." John said. Sherlock had already moved off of John and was attempting to redress himself.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock stopped dressing, his pants still undone and his shirt slung over his shoulder. "I want to stay, I love you John, but I can't. I can't."  
>"I know." John watched him Sherlock intently, he would have to memorize every part of that body until next time. If there was going to be a next time. "Do you know when you will be back?" John was standing now, his body was bare except for a pair of underwear. John had asked this question already before, but he couldn't stop wondering.<p>

"I'm sorry, John." Was all Sherlock could say. "I'm so sorry." It was just like after Sherlock 'died.' Everyone was so sorry, but no one ever did anything.

John leaned in for a final kiss before Sherlock left. The kiss was passionate but short, Sherlock was out past curfew and he feared being caught. He left through the balcony like he arrived. John stood in the room. It felt ten times emptier than before, and John hated the silence that had settled in quite nicely. He looked around. Things looked different but still the same. The roomed smelled like Sherlock again, and John decided not to sleep in the bed that night. Instead he walked downstairs to find that several of Sherlock's things were gone, and a light smell of cigarettes hung in the air.

_**Author's Note:**_

_** This is the final chapter. This is it. I'm sorry it took so long, but I wanted to see where the actual show was going before I added the next chapter and once Sherlock 'died' it was pretty much a 'well shit' moment for me. Anyway, there will be no more for this story, and I hope you all enjoyed it and those to come will. **_

_**-a**_


	8. I Can Feel A Hot One

_**Warning- The following story may or may not contain explicit slash between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Consider yourself warned...**_  
><em><span><strong>Disclaimer- None of the characters you are about to read of belong to me. I am only using them for my sick and twisted enjoyment... And yours. Pervert.<strong>_

"_I took it like a grown man crying on the pavement  
>Hoping you would show your face<br>But I haven't heard a thing you've said  
>In at least a couple hundred days<br>What'd you say?"_

_Taken from the song 'I Can Feel a Hot One' by Manchester Orchestra._

It had been three years, John thought. Three years since his last time with Sherlock, ever. It was on a cool spring night in March. March 23rd, he remembered the date exactly. Both knew it would be the last time to say goodbye.

John remembered how he was sitting in front of turned off telly, and he heard a small noise from behind him. He looked at the television and saw the reflection of someone climbing in through the window, and he knew it was Sherlock. John didn't move, he wanted to give the satisfaction of coming in without notice to Sherlock, that is until John would tell Sherlock he saw him in the reflection.

"John." Sherlock came up behind John that evening and his tone was different than all the other times.

When John turned around he looked very different than any other time. His face was completely void of color, his hair lacked luster, and he looked gaunt. Something was wrong. Even on a case Sherlock never lost that much weight. Though, every time he did lose weight it still made John nervous.  
>"What's wrong?" John was standing and approaching Sherlock now. His hand immediately to his neck to check the pulse. Sherlock didn't even get a word out before he practically collapsed into John's arms.<p>

That's what John remembers from that night. He remembers bits and pieces of what occurred later, but most of it is a blur of him checking on Sherlock and looking outside to make sure the police weren't around. They weren't. After a few months of staking out the flat they gave up and moved on.

John sighed, his hands rubbing his face. He was sitting in his study of his new house on a new street, it all fit perfectly with his new life. It took a while, but after that visit Sherlock was better after a day or two and he left for good. It took nearly a year for John to realize Sherlock wouldn't be back, and he couldn't pay for the flat on his own, even with leniency from Mrs. Hudson. He was dating at that time too; trying to go back to the normal life.

John thought back to when his assumption of Sherlock's return, or lack there of, was finalized. He was sitting in the flat and finally was getting around to the paper. The front cover caught his attention immediately. Sherlock was dead, really this time. His death was nothing more than an accident. Sherlock was gunned down by a bank robber attempting to scare the tellers by shooting, and he was hit. It was all an accident, and and there was a huge news explosion when Sherlock's body was discovered. There was a front page article how the police were in on Sherlock's falsified death before, and this could even be false. John knew that this was the end.

"_The blood was dry, it was sober  
>The feeling of audible cracks<br>And I could tell it was over  
>From the curtains that hung from your neck" <em>

_Taken from the song 'I can Feel a Hot One' by Manchester Orchestra._

John remembered the days after Sherlock's real death. He decided to go to the hospital where Molly worked, she would let him see the Sherlock's body. Molly knew how much Sherlock meant to John and how much it would mean for him to see Sherlock one final time, even in death.

"Oh god..." John said as he looked down at the body that day. The details of Sherlock's body weren't in the paper. He was shot through the front of the throat, the bullet pierced his jugular, and he was shot again in his temple, and finally just below his ribs on his left. Ironically the blood loss was his cause of death, even after getting shot in the temple Sherlock's mind refused to go down. There was no blood now, but John could imagine how much there mus have been, now there was just obscenely pale skin, dry wounds, and dulled eyes. Almost nothing was changed.

"John, you should go." Molly whispered as she looked down at Sherlock's dead body.

"I know." John whispered back, and he did, but not immediately. It took him the better part of fifteen minutes to tear his eyes from Sherlock's dead flesh. It was horrific, and Molly could barely bear it. She loved Sherlock, but Sherlock never loved her back and that made the loss for her easier than for John.

John remembered leaving the hospital, and heading to to police station. He would talk to Lestrade about the crime scene pictures. He wanted to know what Sherlock's final moments in life looked like. John couldn't be there but he needed the images in his mind. He's seen dead bodies before, but this would burn into his mind darker than any other, even his father's.

"John..." Lestrade sighed. "I really... I can't." He was sitting behind his desk looking at John sadly.

"Yes you can. You just won't." John's tone was harsh and needy. Just what he needed to use to get what he wanted from Lestrade.

"I..." Lestrade sighed and broke eye contact with John. "Fine. Stay here." Lestrade got up and went into another room, and soon enough he was back in the small office with a large folder. Sherlock's Folder.

"Thank you." John took the folder and opened it on his lap. The first picture was staring up at him. It was a photo taken at the bank.

Sherlock's face was empty of life, but his neck and chest were full of his own blood. There was blood all over the floor behind his head. It was horrific to see, and John was simultaneously pitying and being jealous of those who were there for the shooting. There was so much blood everything else was dulled in comparison. It was like a black and white photo with a single color enhancement.

"That's..." John started, but never finished his sentence.

"It's a lot of blood, yes." Lestrade finished it for him. "I'll be outside if you need me." With that he left.

John flipped to the next picture. This one was taken farther back. Sherlock was laying flat on the floor, his legs were straight down, and his arms were almost straight out. This time he was the Crucified Christ, and he finally had the wound in the side.

Sherlock didn't even look like himself in this photo. He was incredibly thin, his skin was far more pallid than ever before his hair was long and shaggy, and he was wearing a dark gray button up, which is normal, but the brown coat that lay out on the floor underneath him was out of place, and finally he was missing a scarf.

John pulled out the final photo. It was an up close shot of Sherlock's face. His eyes were looking directly into the camera, and seemed to be looking at him. In the shot you could see the blood seeping from Sherlock's head wound, and throat wound. It was grotesque, but the opaque skin and expressionless face made it impossible to look away, but John couldn't bear to keep staring.

He stood up and left, and from the time John left the room until he made it back to 221B Baker Street were a blur. That's where the memories stop and things blur from day to day for John. He remembers going out and drinking a lot, and sleeping too. Nothing else really.

"_And I realized that then you were perfect  
>And my teeth ripping out of my head<br>And it looked like a painting I once knew  
>Back when my thoughts weren't entirely intact" <em>

_Taken from the song 'I can Feel a Hot One' by Manchester Orchestra._

Now John is here. In his new life, in his new home, with his fiance, and their dog Penelope. But John can never shake Sherlock from his mind, and Jenny knows that. He explained his past, most of it, and told her that Sherlock was his best friend and his death was a serious thing to John, and how it has been a while since the incident but he was still having problems. She understood, as that was all she could do, but in reality she would never really understand.

John had a long time of darkness in his past, and Sherlock's first death was the start of it all. He knew that things would never be back to normal afterwords, but that was also when John realized how much he was in love with Sherlock. They were perfect, and even if Sherlock never knew that, although he probably did seeing as he could deduce anything from anything, John always would know.

"John..." A soft cooing voice echoed into his skull, and John was asleep. "It's Jen. Wake up John."

"Jennn...?" John fell out his sleep. He sat up in his chair slowly and looked around for the source of the voice, and her face was already in front of his eyes.  
>"Good morning, John." Jen smiled, she was holding two mugs in her hand. "You didn't come to bed last night, so I assumed you were in here, have a coffee."<p>

"Thank you." He smiled and stretched, the sun rising outside told him that it was early yet, perhaps quarter of seven. Work would be starting in about an hour and fifteen minutes if it weren't a Saturday.

John looked at his fiance. She was beautiful. She was blonde, and slightly tanned, her legs were long, her hips were wide, she had toe thumbs and dark brown eyes, and she loved him. Her hair was pulled up in a bun and she still was in her night clothes, while John was wearing his clothes from the night before; a jumper, a pair of tan slacks, and his wool socks. Wardrobe of champions.

"Do you want to go out for breakfast?" She asked as she walked around the room sipping her tea and looking at the pictures on the walls. Some are of family, others of she and John, and some of people she doesn't know.

"Sure. Where would you like?" John stands and goes to stand closer to her.

"How about Speedy's on Baker Street?" She looks at him. She had no idea that's where he used to live. He didn't want her snooping about around there, because she would. She went to the police and asked what happened to his friend, and they told her nothing. She wouldn't be afraid to go back to his old flat.

"Uhh... Yeah. Sure." John smiled weakly. He didn't want to go, he really really really really did not want to go at all what so ever.

"Great, I just have to shower and get dressed, and you should do the same. So leave around nineish?" She sips her tea slowly after her sentence.  
>"Sure." He picks up his coffee and leaves his office. He flicks the lights off and closes the door.<p>

While Jenny is in the shower John sits at the kitchen table and looks out the window. They live in the suburbs outside of London, close enough to go to Speedy's but it is a little bit of a drive. Why did she want to go there? It was close to her doctor, and there was an appointment later today, so that may be it. He wouldn't know until they got there, and they weren't even leaving until around nine am, and that's over an hour from now.

"_To pray for what I thought were angels  
>Ended up being ambulances<br>And the Lord showed me dreams of my daughter  
>She was crying inside your stomach<em>

_And I felt love again"_

_Taken from the song 'I can Feel a Hot One' by Manchester Orchestra._

Speedy's had good breakfast. John ordered a fried egg and some rashers with tea to drink, Jenny ordered fried bread with tea. They ate slowly and John kept glancing outside. He didn't want to think that he had lived above this restaurant for a long time with his lover and best friend, and he had never actually been in the restaurant before.

"It's good." John commented.

"Have you never been here?" Jen looked up at him from her bread.

"No..." John looked thoughtfully at his eggs.

"You used to live around here, right?" She poked at him for information.

"Yes. I did, a while ago. Years. The building was old and was demolished." John spoke quickly.

"I see..." Jen nodded. She could tell he was lying, he always spoke quickly and made the same face when he lied.

They finished their food and sat drinking their tea for a while, making small talk about the weather and the traffic and the cost of living anymore oh it's so dreadfully high can you believe it? It was normal people conversation, and John couldn't help but think about how much Sherlock would hate it and oppose the whole small talk predicament at all costs. It bored him, and John had to admit this was boring him as well.

So they left. John and Jennifer left the restaurant and headed to Jen's doctor, where she would get an ultrasound on the baby in her stomach. It was her first pregnancy, even though she was in her thirties and married in the past. They were to find out the sex today. John wanted a boy, and Jenny wanted a girl. They only had two options, really.

"Are you ready to learn the sex?" The nurse asked.  
>"Yes, we are." Jenny grabbed John's hand and squeezed. John hoped for a boy, so badly he could barely contain himself.<p>

"Congratulations, it's a boy." She smiled at the couple, John's face lit up and Jennifer's dimmed slightly but she was excited none the less.

"What do you think about names, Jennifer?" John asked as she was cleaning herself up after the ultrasound.

"What do you think? You wanted a boy, so you should have some names in mind." She sat up and swung her legs off of the bed.

"I think..." John sat on the chair in the room. "I think Sherlock would be a good name."  
>"Sherlock?" She looked at him. "I like it. I really love it."<p>

After that day, the room in the house for the baby was painted a deep purple, books were added into the bookshelf, and a pirate ship mobile was hung above the crib. The day the baby came home was the best day in John's life. Holding his son was the best thing he could have done, and he felt it was his life's calling, even though he thought the same when he was with Sherlock solving crimes. He rocked the small baby in his arms, and he finally felt whole again, which was new for him. He missed that feeling. He loved his son, and he loved his now-wife Jennifer, and he loved that his best friend's legacy was to live on in his son.

_**Author's Note:**_

_** Manchester Orchestra is one of the greatest bands ever, and that is a fact. Their song 'I can Feel a Hot One' affects me so deeply it's insane. Listen to it, especially while you're reading this, it will pull at your heart and that's what it did for me, and in turn I wrote this chapter for you. I hope you all enjoyed my story, and I want you all to know that I appreciate all the reviews and adding this to your favorite story list and whathaveyou. It makes my day, thank you all so much. **_

_**-a**_


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